


go full speed ahead, we'll end up where we get

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, slime puppy in a snowstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: It hasn’t stopped snowing in two days, and Gerri doesn’t think she could even push the door open at this point. But there’s electricity and the internet, and that’s something. There’s food, too, even if Roman did make a joke about having to eat her for sustenance.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 9
Kudos: 86





	go full speed ahead, we'll end up where we get

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to, you know, replace the idea of a snowstorm with another situation that might result in two people being trapped in a house for a while, be my guest!

Thank god there’s internet. 

It hasn’t stopped snowing in two days, and Gerri doesn’t think she could even push the door open at this point. But there’s electricity and the internet, and that’s something. There’s food, too, even if Roman did make a joke about having to eat her for sustenance. 

He said it from between her thighs, with a certain predatory glint in his eye, but she doesn’t think he’ll be turning to cannibalism any time soon. She shuddered, though, his teeth scraping against her skin, her head falling back against the pillow, fingers grasping at the sheets. 

They came to the middle of nowhere because Roman demanded a retreat, demanded time and space for the two of them to come up with a plan. And when she suggested Mohonk Mountain House, he just shook his head. 

“Like a fucking spa? No. Nope. Not that. Too many people, too much _stuff_.” He waved his hands around like she should know what he means. But she leaned back, crossed her arms, let him finish his thought. He might not start somewhere good, and he might not end anywhere that makes sense, but there’s often something in the middle that’s worth listening to. 

“Remember those pisspoor cabins we’d go to in the summer? When I was like five? You were there, right? With Helen and Elizabeth?” Back when Baird and Logan had dreams of rising to the top, before there was too much money, making them sly and stupid and dissatisfied. All five young children running around with water pistols, diving off the end of the dock, Connor only showing up for one weekend, rarely pulling his head from his books, only making appearance to team up with Kendall against Roman, holding him under the water for twenty seconds too long, hiding his clothes when they all went skinny-dipping. 

She’s surprised he has any fond memories of the place. 

Maybe he thinks it’ll be different in the winter.

Maybe he thinks it’ll be different when it’s just them. 

She’s not planning to push him through a hole in the ice at any rate. 

The cabins haven’t been updated that much in thirty years. Outlets for ethernet cables but no wifi, nicer mattresses than the one she remembers. She thinks they’re in the same cabin that the Kellmans usually inhabited, and she tries not to think about the fact that the last person she shared this bed with was Baird. 

Baird who held her close to him, possessive and strong, the smell of his sweat in her nostrils as she slept. So different from Roman, who curls away from her, stays on his side of the bed, sometimes whimpering in his sleep, though he denies it in the morning. 

Thank god there’s a coffee maker too. Roman wakes up a fully formed human, all his tics and quirks functioning at one hundred percent before he’s even down the stairs. Gerri needs strong, hot coffee to deal with it, mug between her hands, robe wrapped tightly around her, belted at her waist. She peers at him through bleary eyes as he moves at warp speed, not hitting her stride until seven o’clock. 

When she goes into the office, she wakes up at four in the morning, is drinking coffee by four-thirty. And then takes her car to the Royco building, rides the elevator all the way up, fully fueled and ready for the day, the first one to turn the lights on. 

It’s different on vacation - not that this is vacation. But they’re away from it all, and they’re in this place together, and it’s different. Roman tells her as much, tells her she seems different. “And it’s not just your hair,” he says, pulling at one of her curls, an endless fascination. 

She bats his hand away, moves to her laptop, her phone always in her right hand, though no one’s calling her now. Roman’s the only person who ever calls. It feels safer to have her phone with her, even in a small cabin where it feels like nothing can touch them. 

The snow would be pretty if it wasn’t trapping them. Fat, wet flakes, sometimes making a splatting noise when they hit the windows. Drifts falling from the roof, sliding down in a large white mass. They have logs to make a fire, but she hasn’t seen any matches. She wonders if Roman’s ever built a fire on his own. He only went on one camping trip with the Boy Scouts and all he got from it was poison ivy. 

The task of searching for something with which to start a fire is enough to occupy her mind for a few moments, to take her away from her computer screen. She’s not even sure what their plan is, what the point of it is, why they’re here. Probably Roman was too nervous to ask for an actual vacation. 

Which is smart of him, because she would’ve said no. But he knows how to get his way, has learned it through years of being the runt of the litter, the youngest boy running after his older brothers. So he framed it around business, around their partnership, and knew she’d say yes. 

God, how she hates being figured out. And how annoying that it’s Roman Roy who seems to have her number.

She finds matches tucked in a drawer in the kitchen, fiddles with the knob for the flue and then sets about stacking wood, peeling off little bits for kindling. Roman wanders into the room, she can hear his footsteps, feel his eyes on her. 

He’s been rummaging around for something to fiddle with for the past hour, digging into closets, opening cabinet doors, hoping something will appear. Gerri needs him to find something too, or else she’ll go mad with his puttering. She’s tempted to bark orders at him, to tell him to help her, but thinks he would just get in the way; gangly limbs and clumsy gestures. Better suited to his ipad or his laptop. She has enjoyed the way his spindly fingers look holding a book in one hand, pretending to read while she gets dressed. 

They’ve been in this cabin for a week, fielding all their normal business, but doing it away from the family, away from everyone else. If anyone in the Roy family thinks it’s strange, they haven’t said anything. But Gerri’s covered their tracks, pulled together a memo about strategy sessions and business mentoring. Completing the management program with a one-on-one approach, since Roman left the seminar early. 

The Roys think she’s being a good soldier, grooming the youngest son to take his place next to the throne - to sit by Logan’s side until it’s time to sit by Kendall’s. 

No one thinks there’s a world where Roman and Gerri might sit side by side to rule it all. 

It takes a few minutes, and three matches, but she gets a fire going, flames licking at the logs, wood popping behind the grate. When she stands, brushes dust and wood shaving from her knees, Roman’s still standing behind her, that look on his face that he gets when he watches her, curious and aroused and like there’s an evil idea lurking in his brain. 

He’s holding a box, rattles it, and she can hear the pieces move. A puzzle. 

“Really?” she asks, and his chin shifts up a little, a challenge. “It’s come to this?” 

“I can only twiddle my thumbs while you do work for so long,” he says, dropping the box on the circular table half in the kitchen, half in the living room. 

It might be nice not to think about anything for a little while. 

It’s some Thomas Kinkade woodsy kitsch puzzle, and Gerri starts to pick out the edge pieces. Roman dives into the box and starts pulling out pieces at random, sticking them together, his hands some kind of magnet for matching pieces. 

Five minutes is all it takes for boredom to set in. She doesn’t have the patience for Roman’s chaotic puzzling style, starting from the middle, working on whatever pieces he pulls from the box. She hasn’t even found all four corners, and he’s got a section of ten pieces going, just somewhere in the middle. 

She takes a deep breath, sighs it out through her mouth. Roman doesn’t even look up, just keeps digging through the box. He didn’t even dump them out on the table. Gerri had to resist the urge to say anything, never wanting to come across like she’s parenting him. She almost shudders at the thought. It would be too much. She’s never wanted to be Roman Roy’s mother. 

Standing from the table, pushing her chair back, her hand drifts across Roman’s back as she moves to the kitchen, pulls a glass from a cabinet and pours herself two fingers of whiskey. She leans her hip against the counter, takes a bracing sip of the alcohol and watches Roman’s bowed head. This is as focused as she’s ever seen him. 

Nothing is ever presented to him as something to figure out, just something he needs to sign off on, say yes or no to. The idea that he might need a puzzle, something that actually challenges him - that’s something no one at Waystar Royco has tried. She congratulates herself on getting at least halfway there with him. 

Maybe she’s a challenge to him, too. Something he can’t suss out. The idea has some appeal, of being the object of his intense focus, but it is at the same time defeating. One day he will solve the mystery of Gerri Kellman and then he’ll move on. 

She takes another sip, and it’s the clink of her glass hitting the counter that gets Roman to look up, to turn and see her standing there. 

“Oh, kinky. Didn’t know ol’ Ger Bear liked to watch,” he says, steepling his fingers, cocking his head. She matches the angle, trying to decide whether or not she wants to slap him. An almost constant question when it comes to Roman. 

“Yes, it’s quite thrilling watching you stick cardboard pieces together. Your most successful project in weeks.” She slides her fingers between the top two buttons of her blouse, is gratified to see how his eyes watch the movement, dark searchlights seeking her out.

Slipping one button free, she can feel the air against her neck. “Only you could go on a work retreat and do absolutely no work.” Her voice is stern but the words are an endearment. _Only him._ She wonders if he knows.

“It’s a team-building exercise,” he says, and he stands, awkwardly, almost knocking the chair over as he tries to be suave, clapping his hand against the wooden back to keep it upright.

“Is this a team?” She arches a brow, undoes another button. Roman is close to her now, his fists clenched, the vein in his forehead visible. “Are we a team? Or are you just a little boy playing with his toys while a real woman works next to you?”

She backs away from him, further into the kitchen, closer to the bedroom, and he follows, dutifully tripping after her, eyes never leaving their path between her face and her hand.

“We’re a team,” he mutters, and it’s not because he doesn’t believe it but because all of his effort is focused on not coming in his pants. She can see the bulge, knows it’ll be hard and warm against her when they come together on the bed.

“A parasite,” she says, loosing the last button of her blouse, her pale stomach bare now, the silk fluttering slightly in the air of the cabin. She can still hear the fire in the other room, is grateful for the extra heat. She can still see the snow coming down too, doesn’t know when it will stop.

He just grunts, hand twitching like he wants to reach out. Months of phone calls, of opposite sides of the door, of sloppy hectic sex, and he still feels like he needs to wait for permission. She waits him out, cocking her head again, eyes flicking from his face to his hand, a mirror of his earlier movements.

When his hand finally slides against her waist, it’s cold, clammy, and she has to stop herself from jumping at the touch, doesn’t want to scare the alley cat when he’s only just emerged from the shadows.

He doesn’t kiss her, for all that he’s willing to play with her hair or nest between her thighs. He very rarely presses his lips to hers. Instead his mouth latches on to her neck and she can feel the press of him against her hips.

They fall awkwardly to the bed, feet hanging off the end, and her hands move to his pants, grateful at least for his concession to sweatpants while they’re locked away from the world. It makes it easier to slide them off his slim hips, to push them to the floor.

He’s not wearing underwear, and the smell of him, the heat of him, is strong. Her own pants come off of her own volition, Roman too focused on the freckles along her clavicle, on the dimples above her collarbone. 

His mouth is wet against her skin, his tongue tracing lines across her chest. She scrapes her fingers up his torso, underneath his t-shirt, faint wisps of hair, whorls around his nipples.

He bucks against her touch, already so close, always so easy in her hands. Putty she can mold. She has so much power, when they’re together. He gives her that, and gets her trust in return. 

From his chest, she slides her hand between them, where their waists meet, where their bodies are crushed together. She guides his erection, purple, swollen, warm, between her legs, nudges him to move atop her, a leg on either side of her hips. When he sinks inside her, she can’t stop the way her nails dig into his forearm.

He doesn’t seem to mind either, his head tilted back, up, away, his slender frame thrusting, moving, the only sound his gentle grunts and the popping of the fire. She is quiet, always quiet, just a hum in the back of her throat, her eyes closed as pleasure washes over her.

For all that he’s uncertain of himself, shaky and nervous, he’s gotten better at this; he’s gotten good. And he always comes quickly, wet, warm liquid flowing across her stomach, but he never leaves her wanting, ducking to press his lips between her legs, to catch her clit in his teeth, to slide his tongue inside her.

Her hands fist in the sheets, her knees bending, and she knows she’s just like the puzzle he stared at, figuring out from any angle he can, never the one she’d expect. He’s solving her, learning her, unlocking whatever she holds inside.

She’d be willing to be locked in this cabin for days, if just for the promise of this, over and over again.

They fall asleep, time has no meaning when they can’t leave the confines of this temporary home. Roman spins away to the other side of the bed, and Gerri turns her back to him, pulls her shirt closed once more around her sticky, sweaty skin.

When she wakes, there’s a hint of sunlight through the snow-crusted window, the first sign of anything but clouds for days. She rolls over to tell Roman, to enjoy the look of relief on his face that they’re almost free of this ill fated retreat. But he’s gone, his side of the bed cold to the touch. 

She doesn’t bother putting her pants on, the house warm enough with the heat on and the fire going, still burning in the grate. Roman is back at the puzzle, his hair in disarray, strands sticking straight up, making him look younger than usual. 

Her feet are soft against the carpet and once more, he’s so engrossed that he doesn’t look up. She feels the urge to press a kiss to the top of his head, but that’s not who they are. Instead, she gives his shoulder a squeeze, and he doesn’t jump at the touch. That’s more than enough validation for her. Her unfinished whiskey is still on the counter, and she takes a sip, fills it once more, brings it back to the table, brings her laptop too.

She goes back to work, answers emails that came up while they were preoccupied. Roman continues at the puzzle, and she doesn’t mind it.

After a while, she props one foot up on his chair, her toes brushing his thigh. He shifts slightly, not away from her touch, but covering her feet, keeping them warm. There are goosebumps on her legs, and she almost regrets not putting on pants, but doesn’t want to disturb the calm they’ve created, this little world just for them. A partnership.

Plows come through the next day, Gerri can see them from the windows of the cabin. It’s another hour before people come through with shovels, the scraping sounds filling the air.

The shovels bang against the front door as they scrape away the snow. It feels surreal to see the ground again, to see the wisps of brown grass so long hidden. She stands at the screen door, watching the plows and shovels drive away in a bright red truck. 

Roman stands next to her, not quite touching, and she knows that he’s looking at her, and not at the world outside. His stare is palpable, almost tangible. 

She moves away from him, from the gaze she cannot read, and steps out into the open air, breathes in deep and long, the first taste of fresh air in days. When she turns around, she sees Roman watching her, eyes big and worried, always afraid of the moment when someone will tell him they’re done. 

“What’s one more day?” she asks, moving back inside, letting the door close behind her. She doesn’t miss the relief on Roman’s face, doesn’t miss the way his fingers twitch as she walks past him. 

One more day. And then they’ll go back.


End file.
